


Hell Can Wait

by objectsinthemirror



Category: Blue Lock (Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Amnesia, M/M, Memory Loss, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tabito-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:22:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27508303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectsinthemirror/pseuds/objectsinthemirror
Summary: There’s a bittersweet taste to forgetting.
Relationships: Karasu Tabito/Otoya Eita
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14





	Hell Can Wait

**Author's Note:**

> for rye <3

The first thing he remembers is the cold. It feels familiar, the slight chill against his left side, slowly creeping its way up to his neck. His face is against the floor (cold, like everything else) his arms slump against the chill linoleum. 

His eyes slowly start to assume their natural function; he blinks a few times, widening his eyelids to trick his mind into thinking he was awake. They instinctively dart across the room, flitting over every wall and corner to find nothing but empty space and a book propped against it. He looks at his body. His chest was bare and his arms sore, nine black tally marks etched into the skin on his wrist. Redness around the last mark indicated that it was seemingly fresh. 

He rolls over, sitting up and wrapping his arms over his knees. His legs still felt asleep, the uncomfortable tingling sensation an indication of inactivity. _How many times have I woke up like this,_ Tabito thought, reaching over to grab the book. His memory is like wading through a heavy fog, or more accurately, swimming through concrete. Vague bits return to him—a series of dissonant sensations more than anything—but they all compile to be utterly useless. It all seemed customary; he knew he was simply going through the motions but he had no idea where these motions lead him to. The book seemed to be the first step. 

He flips it open. 

_Your name is Tabito Karasu._

_Your purpose is to kill._

_You will follow directions and do exactly what I say._

_Any further questions you have will go unanswered._

  
  


The note isn't signed, and Tabito feels as if he shouldn't be surprised. 

A door opens, and two sets of hands drag him out of the room. 

* * *

He spends the next few hours being whisked from room to room, nodding in and out of consciousness. They hook him up to what seemed like twenty different machines and examine his speed (apparently he ran a 3 and a half minute mile), endurance (he was jump roping for a _l_ _ong ass time_ ), and strength (his left arm came in at 600 PSI while his right was 630). He wasn't sure of the time; he knew he had been awake for a few hours but his internal clock was telling him that it was about time for him to go back to sleep. He is unable to rest for he was headed to another room, his handlers mumbling something about a “check up”. 

He enters a small room (they’ve all been getting smaller, he realized. It was like he was in a building reminiscent of a russian nesting doll of some sort) and they wait outside the door while Tabito walked inside. It’s empty (another thing he notices; every time he arrives somewhere Tabito is always the first person to enter the room. It's like they—whoever _they_ are—need to catch him by surprise. He can’t ever be the first person to know something) so he sits down on the examination table, waiting for another command. The room itself is freezing; Tabito can feel a rigor mortis-esque sensation developing in the joints of his fingers, but it seemed as if there was nothing he could do but sit and _wait_. 

He doesn't know much about himself, but from the slight jitter in his leg he could tell that he hates waiting. 

* * *

“Tabito. My name is Igarashi. I’m gonna take your vitals now, if you don’t mind.” 

Tabito winces at the white light overhead, the brightness burning his retinas one cone at a time. He was developing a small headache, though it wasn't at the point to which it was a hindrance to him; If anything it just reminded him that he _had_ a brain, though he had little else to show for it. His throat was dry and scratchy, a clear indicator of some sort of sickness or issue. 

Tabito moved his head to look in the direction of the voice. The owner was a boy with tan skin who seemed to be in his early twenties, his hair dark and low. He seemed familiar, _everything_ seemed familiar, but Tabito lacked the ability to put the puzzle pieces together. If he had more energy he would be aggravated, but in his current state all he could do is sit and stare. The boy looked at Tabito, raising an eyebrow to prompt a response. 

“Okay.” 

“Great. First I’m going to check your temperature.” 

Tabito nodded, sitting up. He felt like a child, letting Igarashi jostle and probe him as much as he wanted to. It was like he was a ragdoll of some sort; his nurse (is that what Igarashi would be? A _nurse_?) pinching and squeezing him as if he had no feeling at all. Tabito remembered his direction, the four sentences replaying in his head. 

_Your name is Tabito Karasu._

_Your purpose is to kill._

_You will follow directions and do exactly what I say._

_Any further questions you have will go unanswered._

He continued to look at his clipboard, jotting down some notes before flipping it face down on the counter. 

“I’m going to ask you some questions,” Igarashi begins, picking up another clipboard, “Answer as honestly as you can.” 

Tabito nods. 

“What’s your full name,” Igarashi began. 

_That one’s easy._ “Tabito Karasu.” 

Igarashi nods and writes something down before moving on to the next question. 

“Are you in any pain?” 

“No.” 

_A lie_ , Tabito remembers, thinking about his headache.

“Do you remember anything?” 

“ _What_?” 

Tabito wasn't sure how he was supposed to answer. He has no recollection of his past, everything before waking up being a complete blur. Was he _supposed_ to remember something? The closest thing to memories that he had were small flashes of deja vu; for example, he felt like he had been in the doctor's office before but yet he could not bring himself to construct the scenario in his head. Would that be a memory? He had no _proof_ of it, aside from gut feeling, but it had to be true; he would have no reason to lie to himself, would he? 

“Memories,” Igarashi clarifies, “Do you have any?” 

Tabito decides he is not going to overthink it. 

“No.” 

He hopes that that was the right answer; if he was supposed to have memories then what was the point of the note? Igarashi jots something down before picking up both clipboards and handing them to someone outside the door. Tabito watches him move around the room, his footsteps silent. 

Something wasn't right. He wasn't sure how he just came to the conclusion (because waking up in an empty room with no prior recollection and a cryptic note _wasn't_ his first sign) but there was something big that he was missing, something much bigger than himself. He hadn't taken much time to think about the other people in his situation (mainly because he couldn't _see_ the people who were dragging him around) but his body was seemingly putting itself into fight or flight and he wasn't sure why. 

“Karasu, now I am going to give you a few words, and you tell me the first thing that pops into your head.” 

“Fine” 

“One,” Igarashi starts. 

“—First,” Tabito says. 

“Yokohama,” Igarashi continues. 

“—Japan.” 

“Computer—” 

“—Motherboard.” 

“Red—” 

“—Hair.” 

Igarashi looks at him skeptically. 

“Hair,” Igarashi repeats, reaching for his clipboard. 

Tabito is hit with the overwhelming feeling that he has said something wrong. 

* * *

_“_ _Hey Red—”_

_“Don’t call me that.”_

_“Why not? You got red hair, don't you?”_

_“Because I don’t call you...black.”_

_“You could.”_

_“I can’t.”_

_Tabito laughs, shaking his head. “You’re the only person here who cares about that whole seniority shit, Red.”_

_He can’t see their face, but Tabito assumes that they are not amused._

* * *

When Igarashi leaves to do God knows what, he gets his first impression that maybe, for some reason, this was a punishment of some kind. He isn't exactly sure what he could have done to warrant it, (he had no recollection of the type of person he was. He imagined that given his inner conscience he was rather sardonic) but the feeling was overly _shameful_ , like he committed some atrocious crime and everyone is only treating him semi-nicely because they had to, not cause they wanted to. 

He could concoct some sort of apology, though he wasn't sure if it would change much as he was lacking an overall topic. 

“Alright Karasu,” Igarashi announces, walking back into the room, “You’re free to go. Your lab results look good. I would take it easy for a few days though.” 

“Pardon me? I can leave?” 

“Of course,” Igarashi says, like he thinks Tabito is stupid or something, “Why would I keep you here? You’re not my prisoner.” 

“Whose prisoner _am_ I?” 

Igarashi looks at Tabito skeptically. 

“You’re not _anyone’s_ prisoner.” 

“ _Excuse me_?” 

“Kunigami is going to come by to give you your keys and shit and after that you are free to go home,” Igarashi explains. 

Tabito stares at Igarashi. His first thought is, _who the fuck is Kunigami?_ The name rang a bell (a very _small_ and very _soft_ bell) but the reason was above him. 

“Kunigami...” Tabito repeats, feeling the word on his tongue. 

“Did someone call my name,” a boy, presumably Kunigami, said from the doorway, walking in and tossing a bag in Tabito’s direction. Tabito caught it (he must have _amazing_ hand eye coordination if he reacted that quickly, he thinks to himself) and peered inside, seeing a phone, wallet, car keys, and a change in clothes. 

“Thanks,” Tabito mumbles, closing the bag and slipping it around his back. 

Kunigami nods before looking at Igarashi, giving him a short salute. 

“Sup, Igaguri. Everything good over here?” 

“Wonderful,” Igarashi smiles, “His tests are done, so he’s yours.” 

“ _Great_ ,” Kunigami says, looking at Tabito before motioning towards the door, “Let’s go.” 

* * *

Kunigami talks a lot, Tabito quickly realizes, as they have been walking for a good 12 minutes or so, turning corners every now or so often without a quiet moment between them. It’s comforting in a way; the awkward silence that Tabito has had to face for the last few hours has been aggravating (granted they were only silences because Tabito had very little to say. Getting your entire life ripped from you seemed to have that effect on people) but Kunigami spoke enough for the both of them, Tabito nodding and humming every few seconds as to remind him that he was still listening. 

They reach a set of large doors, Tabito watching as Kunigami typed in some sort of passcode into a keypad. _What’s my clearance level?_ If he wasn't a prisoner, that must mean that he willingly worked with these people, ( _y_ _ou are an assassin_ , he reminded himself, _don't start forgetting the only piece of information that you know)_ so he should have a bit more context about _where_ he was and _why_ he was there. 

_Maybe that’s what he’s bringing me here for._

“They’re in charge here,” Kunigami says, walking in and pointing at two people who seemed deep in conversation, “The one with the spikey hair is Ryuusei, and the one with the long, brown hair is Wataru.” 

Tabito nods, following Kunigami’s finger. Ryuusei immediately looked up at him, grinning before walking over to where he and Kunigami were standing. 

“Long time no see bud,” Ryuusei laughs, throwing his arm around Tabito’s shoulder. Tabito leaned into the motion, letting Ryuusei move him around the room. 

_This must have been someone I was close to,_ Tabito assumes. 

The other person clears their throat, Tabito turning his head to meet the voice. 

“Hey, I’m Kuon,” he says, his voice dripping in faux amiability, “Ego said I'm not allowed to lie to you so I’m gonna be completely honest; I can't stand you and you can't stand me. If you need to ask me something, here's a tip: don't. And _don’t_ call me Wataru.” 

Tabito finds himself laughing, rolling his eyes in the process (he didn't question why the movement feels natural to him). 

“Alright. Anything else?” 

“I hope you die.” 

Ryuusei chuckles into his hand while Kunigami cringes. 

“ _O_ _kay,_ Kuon,” Kunigami laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck, “Is everything ready?” 

“Yeah. Everything is good to go,” Kuon deadpans, flicking his gaze over Tabito. His eyebrows are scrunched and his mouth is upturned, his hands crossed to complete the whole look. He’s unhappy, even Tabito could discern that, but it seemed to be about something larger than Tabito himself. Tabito decided he wouldn't pry, despite his growing curiosity, but he catalogued it in his worryingly empty memory bank. 

“Well, Tabito,” Kunigami says, “You good to go?” 

_Am I?_ He was in the middle of buttfuck nowhere (at least he _thinks_ he is—he could be in the middle of a fucking city for all he knows. He hasn't seen a window since he has woken up) and, not to dwell on the bad things, but he didn’t _fucking_ know anything. 

(That's a lie. He killed people. He knew that)

His tiny headache was becoming a big one, and Kuon was still looking at him like he pissed in his cereal or killed his dog. It was strange to know that at some point in time he knew the reason but now, in a painfully blank state, he was ignorant to it, forced to deal with the aftermath and animosity of a situation that he felt as if he had no part in. 

“Yeah,” Tabito lied, putting his hands in his pockets, “Let's go.” 

* * *

_“You know, you shouldn't go out without telling me. I get worried.”_

_“For me?”_

_“That you’ll fuck up a job. Don’t get it confused—I don’t care if you live or die.”_

_“That’s nice red,” Tabito laughed, a sickly sweet feeling rising in his chest, “It’s good to know you care.”_

_“I don’t,” they said, pausing for a moment, “I hope you die.”_

_“Alright, Red.”_

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @senkuwife innit


End file.
